


Singing a Ballad of Absent Sorries.

by OliviaPendleton



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angry John Watson, Angst, Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes Style, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt John Watson, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Implied Relationships, John Watson is Tired of Sherlock's Shit, M/M, Married Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mean Sherlock Holmes, Past Relationship(s), Post-Break Up, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Subtext, Watson is Tired of Being Told He is Inferior, fight, johnlockkindof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:40:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27362125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OliviaPendleton/pseuds/OliviaPendleton
Summary: And only lying fully-clothed in an empty bathtub, with cocaine caking his nostrils, did he realize how bestial he had truly become. Perception was a sharp blade or a cruel mistress one, and only then, did he ever acknowledge the fact that he kept Watson beneath him so that he could have him forever. A decrepit veteran in need of a friend, meets a self-proclaimed sociopath, and then the game seems as good as won.(NOTE: The time period is fairly interchangable, although I drew major inspiration from the original series by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Singing a Ballad of Absent Sorries.

It was on a dreary London afternoon that Dr. John Watson decided to wait idle at Hyde Park. The man in question, rosied and full-bodied by the throes of married bliss, had dug his hands into his pockets to fend off the purple-encroaching cold. His gaze swept across the hurried pavements, sprung to life with families and lovers strolling. Sherlock was inconsistent as ever, and had left him waiting for far longer than their appointed meeting hour.  
This would have been a distressing and frustrating notion to Watson in a different time; in a world where he was unused to that familiar yet dull pang in his chest. The jab of hurt that came with knowing how Sherlock tended to prioritize things, and the fact that Watson would never breach the top tier on his list. He used to belly-ache and wallow in the motions of that reality, still holding onto the passing embers of a dream, in which Sherlock could bother to look outside of himself. A man so dedicated to the pursuit of deduction was somehow incapable of pointing that high-powered perception towards himself. 

It was closer to dusk when the detective arrived, which was one of many disappointments Watson had been left with, considering the fact that Hyde Park was not quite the place decent people wanted to be after dark. He approached steadfastly with his black, long coat swaying in tandem. His strides were long and purposeful, which seemed to be a budding irony when recalling how late he was. 

“John.” Sherlock greeted stiffly. It was strange for their interactions to feel so stilted in opposition to their usual fluidity. “You’ve grown stouter.” He remarked with a brazen edge to his tone, looking extremely unashamed about insulting his counterpart. If anything there was an underlying sense of ease and satisfaction in it that Watson felt numb to. 

“You’re an hour late.” He combated, choosing to ignore the insensitive comment about his weight, in favor of bringing another ignored sentiment to light. Sherlock obviously had found it unimportant to mention his belated arrival, even raising an irritable brow. 

“Clearly.” Holmes noted sardonically. “It is comforting to know that all of that dopamine floating around in your head has not hindered your ability to tell time.”

Watson said nothing for several moments wondering which scenario was more ridiculously unacceptable:

1\. That Sherlock had left him standing in the park for nearly an hour, and when finally making his entrance, had nothing to say in regards to it besides a backhanded comment about how corpulent Watson had grown. 

2\. The fact that he had actually waited an entire hour to see a man who had done nothing but shove him down into an inferior echelon since their first meeting. A man who instead of being happy for Watson’s recent marriage, decided to dwell and spoil his friend’s wedded fantasies. Nudging himself in where he was unwanted and taking up far too much of Watson’s time, offering him nothing in return besides an occasional snide remark. 

“So you see that I am happy.” Watson noted with a blank expression, “I supposed that you would be bitter about it, but now that I am finally seeing you face to face, I understand that it is a matter of solitudinous resentment. Is that an incorrect deduction to make, Mr. Holmes?” It was very unlike John to be so brave in his lashings. Typically he kept his more unsavory thoughts close to his chest and his tongue inoffensive. A once simmering tea kettle though, will always boil over when left alone for too long, and Sherlock had certainly forgotten to turn the stove off this time. 

Sherlock Holmes stood very still, like a pond or an immovable block of ice. His eyes had widened for the entirety of a split second, before retracting to their usual blase and empty sentiments. There was an inkling of shock, followed by such an infuriating stare, that Watson felt the urge to deck him across the jaw. The doctor had to repress those feelings of aggression though, because they were the polar opposite of ‘moving on.’ The opposite of growth and the resurrection of a bus boy that Watson had tried to kill. 

Staring back into them though. 

Those grey and steady eyes, that had scanned unforetold horrors and what may possibly have felt like the end of the world to some. Who had analyzed Watson in the chemistry lab beside Stamford and unearthed shallow secrets. John had watched unparalleled amusement float through those irises and reflect callous superiority.  
And sometimes, when he was lying silently on the couch in their old flat, or scraping his bow against the violin, there was nothing. That passing wild spark that only presented itself during a chase, primal in the most intellectual sense, because he could only trifle himself with things he deemed entertaining. It was rendered to nothing when he thought that he was alone. It was only black and cold. Bleak like the feeling you get when you realize that you have nothing left to look forward to. Watson assumed that Sherlock lived his life that way when there was not bloodshed to be analyzed. 

Normally sharp as a tack, Holmes remained quiet for several moments. Eventually he straightened his assessment of things and expertly forged a conversational u-turn. “Do not act as if you are capable of reading me John, for you are not that gifted, nor are you so daft though that you believe it can be done. I assume you are projecting some kind of resentment onto me.” No self-satisfied grin quirked his lip as he spoke. Instead he offered Watson a psychoanalytical gaze and a silent invitation to rejoin his ferris wheel of mental and emotional gymnastics; an atmosphere wherein the doctor would fall prey to his prior position as worshipper of the steely-eyed icon.  
Sherlock felt his narcissism run deeper than God’s and it was something that he cared very little about under the shield of daylight. It was only in the velvet guise of ebony, when the sun had gone elusive under the horizon, that he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror with repulsion. The thin-lipped, square jawed beast was no devil, but inside of him was the audacity of a King.  
And only lying fully-clothed in an empty bathtub, with cocaine caking his nostrils, did he realize how bestial he had truly become. Perception was a sharp blade or a cruel mistress one, and only then, did he ever acknowledge the fact that he kept Watson beneath him so that he could have him forever. A decrepit veteran in need of a friend, meets a self-proclaimed sociopath, and then the game seems as good as won. 

Sherlock would have said or insulted his way through anything that Watson had provided him. Any shred or indication that he was growing weary of the detective, or any sign that his charms on Watson were fading, meant that Holmes had to grip him tighter. Sherlock wanted to keep John in a music box under lock and key, his own personal companion to provide an ego-boost, or an accessory to hang upon his neck so that he would never have to be lonely again. 

You can not ‘keep’ people though, and Sherlock Holmes realized very quickly that in order to have a friend, you need to be one. He fought his own pride to keep John, and he lost. Outsmarted by himself. 

All he had to do was apologize. 

Right here in Hyde park.

Two words, ‘I’m sorry’, and then surely Watson would feel so overwhelmed he would want to follow Sherlock back to their old flat. 

He would want to join him on cases again and have lunch and dinner, and listen to Sherlock strike the violin. He would want to have tea and critique Sherlock’s ‘silly’ articles, and try to jam the godforsaken solar system knowledge into his head-attic again. 

Sherlock would do that. He would remember that the earth revolved around the sun for Watson, if it just meant that he would quit this bitter nonsense and come home. 

The only problem was that it all hinged on, ‘I’m sorry,’ and that always seemed to be Sherlock’s Achilles heel. 

John seemed remarkably unimpressed with that response, eventually breaking into a frown. “I have a hard time believing that I’m the one who projects, when you use me to make yourself feel better.” He stated. “Besides the lot of that, I think that you should realize what this makes you.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly, for the humid air had moistened his throat, and he spoke assertively. “And what may that be, eh?”

Watson only smiled that base and vain smile; one from which he had plucked straight from the mouth of his emotionally manipulative friend. It reflected so easily that even Holmes noticed the temperature drop a few degrees. 

“This makes you inferior, my dearest Sherlock.” 

He turned away now, having only spoken a few words, but now too mentally drained to stand the sight of his once beloved companion any longer. 

Sherlock felt a sharp stinging maim him, but then was completely swallowed by anger, by the surging and profound need to prove himself God. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, “I have no clue as to where you gathered this evidence, but I suggest that you quickly refute your own argument before you become a fool. Surely you do not think your intellect could light a candle to mine?”

“It’s not always about intellect,” John grinned contritely, reveling in the dark stream of victory that came with getting under his skin. “What good is any of that if you have proven yourself incapable of emotional adequacy? There are some things you will never be able to figure out about human interaction, or love, or friendship. And I hope that it kills you one day.” John turned to give Sherlock one last glance, finally having figured out the detective. Finally having solved him.

“As for how I figured all of this out Mr. Holmes, it was simply child's play. Elementary, if you will.”

John walked away, leaving everything that could have been, and all that there ever would be of their entanglement behind. 

Sherlock, realizing he had lost, cursed the checkmate. The walk back to Bakers St. was desolate that night, as was the mournful cry of his violin in the flat, singing a ballad of absent sorries.


End file.
